


The Bond Between Brothers

by waywardwhumpist



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Awesome Dean Winchester, Bromance, Episode: s02e14 Born Under a Bad Sign, Fever, Fluff, Gen, Sibling Love, Sick Sam Winchester, Sickfic, Stressed Sam Winchester
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-04
Updated: 2020-12-19
Packaged: 2021-03-10 06:34:53
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,920
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27879949
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/waywardwhumpist/pseuds/waywardwhumpist
Summary: Sam is destined to be a killer just like Max Miller and Ansem Weems. Hell he already was! He had just killed Steve Wandell! He almost killed Dean. When the stress of it all finally breaks him down into a physical and emotional mess, Dean is there to pick up the pieces (after he realizes that Sam isn't drunk, he's sick) and suddenly it's like those 4 years apart never happened. Fluff without plot, bromance, whump and adorably feverish Sam! Takes place after 2x14 BUABS.
Kudos: 43





	1. Chapter 1

Sam dozed with his cheek against the cold window of the impala, feeling the heat from the vents soak into every other part of his body. That was where the serenity ended. It was 3am and Sam just been possessed for a week. He had killed a hunter, hurt his friends, and tried to kill his brother. It had been, what a year since he had last shot Dean? Since the last time he spewed hateful words and tried to kill him at the asylum. They wouldn't be so lucky next time. Sam almost huffed at the unbelievability of their lives, but didn't want to break the silence in the car. Dean had a day old gunshot wound in his shoulder and he was driving all night to get Sam out of town.

Too bad he couldn't escape his destiny by going 80 in a 50. He was going to end up like Max and Webber. Steve Wandell was probably the first of many. He smiled wryly as Dean's words echoed in his mind.

"As long as I'm around, nothing bad is going is going to happen to you."

That was obviously bull. As much as both he and Dean wanted it to be true. There was nothing Dean could do. Sure he could tell Sam they needed to go to Las Vegas because of Sam's powers and joke about how Sam had a girl in him for a week and promise to be there for him, but he couldn't stop destiny. Looking down at the blistering burn on his arm, Sam winced as he scratched at the dying skin. He wished he could trade it for Dean's bullet hole. Maybe even trade the whole week. Dean would be better at dealing with becoming a murderer. But Sam wouldn't wish it on him anyway.

Sam wondered what his dad would say. Would he have killed him because he was possessed? Sam wanted to believe he wouldn't, but he was the one who told Dean to kill him. When it was dad who was possessed he wanted to be killed. He would expect no less from one of his sons. If his father was still alive Sam would be dead right now. His eyes were burning. Was it the time, the emotion, or the lack of food? Who knew.

Sam closed his eyes and saw Steve Wandell bleeding on his shirt, he saw Max Miller killing his family, he saw himself shooting Dean with rock salt and then an unloaded gun, and then a real one. Dean fell off the bridge. He saw himself tying up Jo. Then it was Dean bleeding on his shirt, Sam twisting a knife in his gut, grinning.

Sam jolted out of his dreamlike state and looked at Dean, who spared him a glance, but didn't pry. He let out a breath. The sudden urge to lean against Dean instead of the cold, hard door sprung up, stronger than it had been since he was 8 years old. He knew what dad's old leather jacket smelled like, how it felt to have Dean's arm around him and lay his head on his brother's shoulder. But he held back. They didn't do that anymore. They were adults now. A murderer didn't deserve that kind of comfort anyway. Because of him Steve Wandell would never be able to hold his daughter again.

Sam was snapped out of his thoughts when Dean pulled into a small motel. Wordlessly, Dean pulled back his jacket to show a spot of blood on his shirt. Sam nodded his understanding and moved to get a room while Dean got their bags from the back and slung them over his good shoulder. Dean followed as Sam walked passed the car to a room and opened the door. The walls of the motel were coated in a sickening amount of rainbow candies. Some of the swirly lollipops could actually spin. After staring a second, the boys exchanged an amused look and entered the room.

After tossing a bag on each bed, Dean cautiously began shrugging out of his jacket and Sam quickly moved to help, tossing it on the table before doing the same thing with his stained flannel shirt. Fortunately or unfortunately, Dean's t-shirt was black and still salvagable. By the time they got it off Dean was sweating and the kids in the room next door had learned some new vocab. Dean winced and grunted as Sam carefully unwound the soiled gauze.

"Sorry," Sam said sympathetically. Bobby had taken care of the wound before letting the boys leave, but Sam wanted to check it for infection and clean it again before letting Dean sleep for the next week. It was larger than a regular bullet hole thanks to Sam's thumb. Three neat stitches closed the wound. "Doesn't look infected..." Sam mused as he poured peroxide onto a cotton ball. He made eye contact with Dean to make sure he was ready before dabbing it on and around the area. "Done," he said. Dean let out a long breath.  
"I'm sorry," Sam said again, this time with more depth. He was sorry for being the reason Dean was in pain now, the reason he'd spent the past week worried out of his mind, the reason he'd lost his mother as a little boy, the reason he might have to kill the person he loved most. Sorry he was a freak with terrifying powers he couldn't control that would one day control him.  
"Sam don't." Dean ordered, a hint of pleading in his tone. "I told you it wasn't you. End of conversation. I'm hitting the sack." As if to signify his sincerity, he flopped back on the bed and closed his eyes.  
"Right, sorry." Sam smiled slightly when Dean opened one eye and gave him a look.

"You should do the same," Dean more instructed than offered. Sam stalled, thinking back to the images that had run through his brain in the car.

"Naw I slept in the car. Think I'll take a walk." He cringed. Since when did he say naw? Dean however was too tired to care and acknowledged him with a wave of his hand, covering his eyes with his arm when it fell.

As Sam walked down the street, he quickly realized the fault in his plan. Alone with his thoughts was just as bad as trying to sleep through them. Worse actually because if he had laid down at least he could feel Dean's presence. He'd almost lost Dean. Sam thought he was dead. After all he'd shot him himself. Halting, Sam pressed his fists into his burning eyes and pretended the wetness was solely from exhaustion. He was tired. The motel was still in sight. If he went back so soon Dean would question him and somehow that seemed like an unbearable situation. He didn't have any answers and at the moment lacked the clarity of thought to come up with something so he just kept walking.

The town was really more of a road stop, hosting two motels, a few gas stations and fast food joints and one minimart. Not much to see, or far to walk. Sam wondered if there was something he could do. Maybe stock up on a few things or search for a hunt... no it was too soon to look for a hunt. Dean's injury was still fresh. He probably couldn't even dig up a grave.

He should bring back some food. It had probably been a good week since either of them had a good meal since Sam was a little occupied with murdering and Dean with trying to find him. Sam was entering the minimart, not sure what to buy, when he realized he didn't bring his wallet. At least he didn't make it to the checkout counter. He waited until the cashier was absorbed in a magazine between heading back out into the cold.

It had been long enough. Maybe too long. What if something happened to Dean while he was gone? He had fallen into a river. He could get sick, or the wound could get infected! Then a worse thought occurred to him. What if Dean was gone when Sam got back? Decided he didn't want to deal with Sam's crap anymore? Suddenly desperate and certain something was wrong, Sam ran back to the motel and burst in the door to see Dean right where he left him, now on his stomach and hugging a pillow.

Feeling stupid, Sam quietly lay on his own bed and listened to the steady breathing of his brother, trying to match it with his own. He remembered the moment he had come to, alone in a silent motel room, covered in blood. Dean's blood. Because Sam had stabbed- no shot him. Shot him again, and again. Wait no... Max shot Dean- because he didn't want him to kill his whole family. Sam killed his whole family too. He was alone. He was a freak. He was a murderer. He-

"Sam?" The voice called, not for the first time he registered now. With a gasp Sam jerked up and squinted to see through the black spots that were spilling out of his pulsing head and tainting his vision.

"Uh yeah?" He said slightly delayed. That was pretty quiet, did Dean hear? Should he say it again? Why did his breath keep hitching?

"You were- are you drunk?" Dean asked somewhat incredulously, torn between irritation and sympathy. Sam pressed his fingers into his eyes and thought about the question.

"Um... I don't..." Why was it so hot in here? He put a hand in his sticky hair. "No." He said. "I'm not." He was suddenly certain.

"You're sure?" Dean raised his eyebrows. "Because the last time I heard you sob like that was after what would have been one too many beers for me, let alone you."

"When was that?" Sam wondered aloud, now scrubbing his face with a hand, trying to remember.

"It doesn't matter." Dean shook his head and tossed his brother a water bottle, which he fumbled with before dropping on the bed. Dean picked it up and pressed it into Sam's hands. "Sober up Sammy!" He gave Sam a friendly slap on the cheek and turned away, then pulled up. Putting his hand back on Sam's face, Dean gave a hum of understanding as Sam closed his eyes and leaned into the touch.

"You're pretty hot there little brother," Dean murmured, completely switching gears. The fever was definitely high, but he wasn't worried. It had been a rough week for Sam, this was a natural consequence, probably part starvation, dehydration, stress, and overexertion. It would go down once they'd fixed some of that.

"Too hot," Sam replied, before realizing what his brother meant and raising his own hand to his forehead, genuinely surprised at the heat there. "Oh," he said dumbly. After a moment he nodded, "that makes sense." Explained why he felt so out of it. Reaching over Sam, Dean grabbed the pillows from the other side of the bed, wincing slightly as the motion pulled at his stitches, and stacked them so Sam could lean against them. He took the water bottle again, opened it, and held it out to Sam.

"Drink some of this, it'll help cool you off." Obediently, Sam took the bottle and drank it all. Dean took the empty bottle and tossed into a few feet into the trash can. Sam let out a contented sigh as he melted into the pillows and Dean smiled slightly. He sounded like a little kid.

"Don't fall asleep on me yet buddy, I'll be right back." Stroking Sam's hair out of his eyes, Dean headed out to the car to grab some Tylenol. When he got back, Sam had predictably been a little brat and fallen asleep.

"Hey, Sammy? Told you not to fall asleep."

"M'not sleep," Sam slurred, sitting up too quickly in an effort to prove his point.

"Whatever you say." Dean patronized him with a smile. He handed Sam two pills and another bottle of water, which Sam took before handing the mostly full bottle back to his brother.  
"Thanks," Sam lay back, closed his eyes, and took a deep breath savoring the feel of being on a bed. Suddenly remembering, he sat up again. "How's your shoulder? How long have we been here?"  
Dean was surprised by the question and considered it for moment, bringing up his other hand to trace the outline of the gauze. "Not too bad. I don't feel it at all unless I move too fast." He glanced at the alarm clock between the beds. "And according to the clock we've been here for negative two hours." Dean dug around in his jacket pocket for his wallet and wiggled it in the air as he headed for the door. "I'm gonna book us a couple more nights. I don't think one is enough for us to fully appreciate the wackiness of Willy Wonka's wonderland." He said with a grin.  
When Dean got back, Sam was asleep and had gotten under the covers. Checking his watch, Dean mentally calculated the amount of time they'd been in town to be three hours. As much as he desperately wanted to get some more sleep, he knew they needed to pick up a couple things since they planned to stay a few days.  
Putting a hand on Sam's shoulder, Dean gently shook him awake. "Sammy? Wake up a minute."  
"Why?" Sam groaned.  
"No reason I just wanted to annoy you," Dean quipped, unable to resist. Sam flipped onto his stomach, buried his face in his pillow and held up his middle finger. Dean laughed.  
"Actually I'm heading to the store and I wanted to make sure your pansy ass didn't wake up and freak while I was gone. Want anything specific?" Sam flipped back over and squinted blearily at Dean.  
"An airplane. Cessna 150, silver with blue stripes. Don't trust sellers with beards," he replied without hesitation, giggling near the end at his own humor. Dean took it in stride and hid his smirk.  
"Yeah I'll get right on that."

To be continued...


	2. Chapter 2

Sam woke up vomiting. At first all he felt was the pain, then the taste, the cold, the soreness, the headache and the stickiness all over his body hit him all at once making him groan as the bout ended. Heart pounding, he rolled away from the vile substance to gasp for breath. He knew he shouldn't lay there in his own puke, but didn't want to open his eyes. His head hurt too much. A few minutes to gather himself wouldn't hurt anything. Unless he fell asleep. Or puked again just from the gross wetness of the sheets. He really should get up now he decided, making no move to act on the decision.

"Sammy?" A hand grabbed his ankle. 'Go away' he wanted to say, but his voice didn't get the memo. "Sam." More urgently this time. Sam sat up, ignoring the squelching sound it made, then opened his eyes. Dean was standing by the foot of his bed, sporting an array of swirling rainbow spots. The effervescent wallpaper was so not helping his vertigo.

"I got some Pepto, it's in the bathroom. You can take more Tylenol too."

Nodding his understanding, Sam got up, waited a moment to get his bearings and headed for the bathroom. He shivered as he wiped a wet cloth over his face and grimaced at the vomit in his hair. There was a lump in his throat, a cloud of dread hanging over him and a feeling like he was forgetting something. Recognizing the post nightmare symptoms, he opted to forgo the Pepto and went straight for the Tylenol. Chances were the vomiting had nothing to do with his fever. There was a knock at the door.

“Delivery for Sam Winchester.” A dull thud. Opening the door, Sam found a pile of clean clothes. Not taking into account his compromised equilibrium, Sam leaned down to grab the clothes and stumbled forward. He would have landed flat on his face if it weren’t for the proximity of the wall across from the door which he rammed with his shoulder.

“Sam you okay?” He must have taken too long to respond because in a moment Dean was grabbing his arms. “Sammy?”

“Yeah. Yeah, I’m good.” Sam let out a breath as Dean released him. “Actually I think I broke my pride,” he half smiled, half grimaced. Dean huffed a laugh as he gave Sam a hand up and handed him his clothes this time.

“Can’t break what you don’t have.” Dean quipped.

Shooting Dean a scathing look, Sam closed him out of the bathroom and stripped, dumping his soiled clothing into a sink of cold water. He couldn’t breathe through his nose. Putting his head in his hands, elbows on the sink, he rubbed his burning eyes. The image of him covered in blood surrounded by bodies shot through his mind and he jerked his head up. That was part of his dream. He didn’t deserve Dean.

Here he was, a murderer whose own father would have killed him given the chance, and Dean was bringing him clothes and making jokes. There were people out for his blood because he had killed their friend, but Dean who had more right than anyone to hate him, stuck by him. Sam would be the death of Dean, almost had been plenty of times and yet Dean hadn’t ditched him. And Sam knew he never would. Not like he’d left Dean. That was his biggest mistake. If he hadn’t left, Jess would still be alive, Dad might still be alive. Who knew how many people his Dad and Dean hadn’t been able to save because they were short-handed.

Sliding his hands up into his sweaty hair, Sam shook off the depressing thoughts and got dressed. As he left the bathroom, Dean squeezed by to drop the putrid bedsheets in the bathtub. Funny how exhausting changing clothes was with a fever. Avoiding the temptation to just lay down in Dean’s bed, Sam opened the closet to look for a spare blanket. He was way too cold to think about going back to his now that it was bare. Not surprised to find it empty, he leaned on the door frame to ponder his options. The decision was made for him when Dean put a hand on his shoulder and pulled him away from the closet.

“C’mon kiddo, bedtime.” Dean announced as he face-planted onto the right side of the bed. Sam smiled slightly in relief. It had been a while since Dean called him that -probably 4 years- and right now he was just too grateful to be pissed about it. Laying down on the other side of the bed and facing away from Dean to allow for as much privacy as possible while sharing a bed, Sam tried to fall asleep. He also tried to stay awake. As much as his body craved rest, Sam knew going back to sleep meant bloody, guilt twisted dreams and aside from the obvious displeasure of that, he didn’t want to end up puking or sobbing in Dean’s bed. At the same time, sleep was inevitable so he might as well get it now as later.

Inevitable. Just like the yellow eyed demon’s plans for him. Just like Dean’s death at his hands. Even if Dean did wise up and kill him, he would never get over it. Sam would either end Dean’s life or ruin it. Dean’s breath had evened out a few minutes before. Rolling over, Sam took a good look at his brother. He was laying on his side, good shoulder down facing Sam. It didn’t look like he was in any pain. If they were ten years younger, Sam would crawl in close and press his forehead against Dean’s chest and Dean would wrap his arms around him. Maybe it was the fever, but he found himself desperately wishing he could do it now. Maybe he was really wishing for simpler times, but all he knew what that he was exhausted, scared, cold, and lonely, and didn’t feel good, and that the only thing that would make it better was to be just a foot to the right.

Dean returned to the land of the living slowly. It had been a while since he’d gotten so much sleep all at once. The first thing he noticed was the slight shaking of the bed. He didn’t think much of it until the sound of a hitched sob joined it and reality crashed in. He lay still, silently hoping Sam would wake up, or that his nightmare would end without Dean’s intervention. Of course he could never be that lucky. He listened to Sam’s uneven breathing, willing it to slow down. Sam whimpered. Dean ignored it. Another stifled sob turned into a cough. Dean winced but didn’t move. He was panicking a little about what to do. Instinct demanded he pull his little brother into his arms, whisper soothing nonsense and run a hand slowly through his hair, but he held back. Grown up Sam would not appreciate that. Should he wake him up?

As Dean finally opened his eyes it became even harder to resist. So hard his chest ached with the effort. Sam’s face was red and tear streaked, his sweaty hair plastered to his forehead. He was curled into an impressively small ball and his lips quivered with every shaky inhale. The trembling almost did him in, but Dean refused to let himself be affected. Sam was an adult and Dean needed to let him be one. Carefully getting out of bed, Dean went to the bathroom and returned with a wet washcloth. Slipping back under the covers, he propped himself up on an elbow and gently wiped the hair out of Sam’s face with the cold cloth. Sam squeezed his eyes tightly shut but didn’t wake up. It was when Dean lay the rag on the back of Sam’s neck that his resolve broke. Sam gasped at the cold and tried to curl into an even tighter ball.

“Dean…” Sam pleaded, his voice cracking—and damn maturity to hell because there was no way Dean could let his little brother sound like that. Not after he’d just spent a week searching for him. Not while he was felt sick and guilty and scared like Dean knew he did.

“Shhh, I’m right here Sammy. We’re okay.” He whispered, pulling his little brother up against his chest with one hand behind his back and the other behind his head. He tensed as Sam took a deep breath but relaxed once Sam’s breathing evened out with no hint of the shakiness from before. Dean closed his eyes and smiled into Sam’s hair. He’d missed this—missed Sam so much since he’d left for college and even a little after he’d come back as a man. He’d missed how they used to be and even though he knew it wouldn’t last, he was more content in this moment than he could ever remember being. Sure, Sam was destined to go bad, both their parents were dead and there was a bullet hole in his shoulder, but his little brother was slowly uncurling to press against him and they had no plans to do anything else.

To be continued...


End file.
